


This work could have adult content.

by jessalae



Series: A series is a set of related stories, each of which is complete on its own. [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fans & Fandom, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: “So,” Eliot said against Quentin’s mouth, rocking their hips together oh so slowly, ducking his head to lick at Quentin’s pulse point, “of the things you’ve written, which one’s your favorite? Which one gets you the hottest?”“I amnot,” Quentin said, shoving up onto his elbow and glaring at Eliot, “going to fuckingreenactmy fuckingfanficwith you.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: A series is a set of related stories, each of which is complete on its own. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100189
Comments: 11
Kudos: 124
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	This work could have adult content.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akisazame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/gifts).



> Thank you so much to hoko_onchi for betaing!

Quentin had been dreaming about this moment for, what, months? And by _dreaming_ he meant _daydreaming_ , mostly, although there had been some literal night dreams (and subsequent morning jerk-off sessions), but daydreams were better because he could choreograph the action. In daydreams he could decide— no, it’s going to be like _this_ — this time of day, this setting, this position, here’s what I’ll say and do— he could rewind if something didn’t play right, go back to an earlier point and try it differently, really just go all out making it as hot as he possibly could—

Unfortunately, the moment had now actually arrived, and since reality did not bend to his whims like fantasy did, it was already going fully off the rails.

They were in Eliot’s room, stretched out on his bed making out. Because they could _do_ that, now— Quentin asked Eliot out and he said _yes_ and they did in fact go for coffee right before Quentin went home to his dad’s for winter break. And at the end of that date, as they stepped out of the little cafe, shoulders hunched against the harsh real-world wind, Eliot turned and wound his arms around Quentin’s waist and leaned into him, and like something out of a goddamn Hallmark Christmas movie, Quentin tipped his face up and closed his eyes and had the kind of soaring-violins, chorus-of-angels first kiss he’d thought only existed in fiction.

And now break was over, but classes wouldn’t be starting again until tomorrow, and so Quentin got to lie in Eliot’s bed with him, fingers petting gently over Eliot’s beautiful dark curls (which were as soft as they looked) and down the side of his neck (warm skin, little bit of stubble) as they kissed, slow and easy. Eliot was a fucking _great_ kisser, assertive without being pushy, testing things out to see what Quentin liked, how they could move together. Quentin wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been here. Quentin didn’t honestly care. The rest of the world, the rest of _existence_ didn’t matter; Eliot’s hand curled around the back of his neck, his mouth moving softly against Quentin’s— that was enough.

Then Eliot shifted forward just a bit, one hand tightening on the nape of Quentin’s neck and the other sliding over Quentin’s hip, fingers slipping under the hem of Quentin’s sweater to caress his lower back, and certain parts of Quentin’s body said: nope, not enough. Not nearly enough.

Eliot kissed Quentin once more, then pulled back, smiling at him. “I don’t want to push things too fast,” he said, “which, frankly, is a new impulse for me. So you’ll have to tell me what pace works for you, and I’ll match it.”

“Um,” Quentin said. Eliot’s hand was moving in slow circles over his lower back. “I’m, uh, we don’t. We uh, don’t need to—” He screwed his eyes shut so he could actually _say_ it, “—go that slow? I’m okay with. Whatever.”

“Really,” Eliot purred. He trailed his lips over Quentin’s cheek, towards the corner of his jaw, the side of his neck. “What kind of _whatever_ were you thinking?”

“Anything,” Quentin breathed. Eliot’s tongue flicked out to trace up his neck, play with his earlobe, Jesus _fuck_ why did that feel so good?

“What are my options?” Eliot asked. “What have you thought about doing with me?”

 _Literally everything, but probably my top three ideas have been one: getting your entire dick in my throat; two: riding you until I shoot all over myself; and three: having you hold me down and fuck me so hard I forget how to breathe,_ Quentin’s brain prompted helpfully. “Uh, like. I mean, anything,” is what came out of Quentin’s mouth.

Eliot stopped tonguing Quentin’s earlobe, gave the side of his neck a soft kiss, and propped himself up on one elbow. Quentin made a pained noise. “How is it that you’ve written some of the hottest pornography I’ve read in my entire pornography-filled life—”

“Ugh, _why—_ ”

“—and yet you can’t even tell me in the vaguest terms what you want in bed?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Quentin said, frowning. “That’s just— I mean, it’s fantasy, for one thing; it’s not _me_ wanting it. And it’s, it’s written down, not.” He gestured futilely between their bodies. “I don’t, I’m not good at talking about. Any of this.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow at him. “About sex.”

“Yeah.”

“No, say it. I need to know you actually can.”

“Jesus, Eliot— I’m not good at talking _about sex_.” Quentin could feel his face going bright red. “Happy?”

“Almost,” Eliot said. He settled back down, drawing Quentin in for more kisses, and the roiling anxiety in Quentin’s chest roiled a little less vigorously. If Eliot still wanted to kiss him, at least, after _that_ disaster of an interaction, that was— maybe the best he could hope for.

“So you’re comfortable writing out all your dirtiest fantasies,” Eliot said after a bit, “just not saying what you want out loud?”

“They’re not, I mean— it’s not _my_ fantasies, it’s like. It’s what fits the characters and the, the _story_ I want to tell,” Quentin said, his blush returning full force in an instant. His blood cells were probably getting whiplash, having to travel back and forth between his face and his dick so rapidly. “People who write just whatever gets them off without thinking about whether it makes _sense_ are like. There are definitely people like that, but that’s not what _I_ do.”

Jesus. In all his daydreams about this moment, somehow he hadn’t realized there’d be a part where he got all arrogant and elitist about the _characterization of the explicit fanfic he wrote_. Great going, Coldwater, extremely sexy.

“But of all the possible stories that make sense, you _choose_ the ones you want to tell,” Eliot insisted. “So clearly you’re going to choose the stories that you find the most appealing.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but—”

“Which means they are, in fact, your fantasies.” He kissed Quentin firmly before Quentin could talk again. His hand slid up Quentin’s back, thumb petting between his shoulder blades. His chest pressed hot and firm against Quentin’s, and his hips shifted forward just enough. Quentin moaned sharply at the press of Eliot’s half-hard cock against his.

“So,” Eliot said against Quentin’s mouth, rocking their hips together oh so slowly, ducking his head to lick at Quentin’s pulse point, “of the things you’ve written, which one’s your favorite? Which one gets you the hottest?”

“I am _not_ ,” Quentin said, shoving up onto his elbow and glaring at Eliot, “going to fucking _reenact_ my fucking _fanfic_ with you.”

“I didn’t say anything about reenacting,” Eliot said. He smirked a little. “Although I do fancy myself more of the Lance, in this relationship, simply based on physical characteristics— another time,” he said hastily, as Quentin started trying to wriggle away from him. “We’re not roleplaying or anything. I don’t even want to try and follow the story exactly. I just want to— use it as a starting point.” He drew Quentin back towards him, got their hips lined up again. “I think we’ll figure it out from there.”

“Uh,” Quentin said, “that’s, uh.” Eliot’s dick was definitely more than half-hard, now, which was _distracting_ — “I guess that’s okay?” He wrapped his hand over Eliot’s waist, pulling them closer together, and Eliot made a pleased noise. “Uh, so I guess—”

It didn’t actually take that much thinking about, but Quentin still made noises like he was thinking, because sending the message that _I already know exactly which piece of Fillory and Further smut I want to use to inspire our first time together, new boyfriend,_ would just be— a lot to admit. “Probably uh, ‘Remember How We Felt’?”

“I have to confess I didn’t pay a _lot_ of attention to the titles, when I was working my way through your portfolio.”

“It’s the one where um, they’re like, they go back to the pub where they first met? And they’re all overwhelmed with memories, and then they portal home and—”

“Right,” Eliot said, nodding. “Rupert gives Lance a blowjob and then fucks him missionary-style, all tender and staring into his eyes.”

Quentin felt himself flush _yet again_ , because the whole tenderness thing wasn’t, like, what he’d _wanted_ Eliot to immediately realize about his suggestion but also, accurate? “Well, uh— yeah? I like, um. I mean. Porn with feelings is my favorite, so that’s my favorite, so—”

“I’m on board,” Eliot said. His fingers slid into Quentin’s hair, cradling the back of his head, and Quentin just automatically relaxed, melting into Eliot’s grip. “Again, the goal isn’t to follow the story exactly. But it _sounds_ to me— and let me know if I’ve got this wrong— it _sounds_ like you may be interested in sucking my dick.”

“God,” Quentin groaned, grinding forward against said dick (which felt _so big holy shit— Margo had not been kidding_ ) and diving into a kiss, sloppy, too much tongue, but Eliot didn’t seem to mind judging by his pleased chuckle and the way he bit lightly at Quentin’s lip. “Yeah,” Quentin managed finally, in the split-second between kisses. “I want to, yes.”

“So do we start clothes on, clothes off?” Eliot asked. “Set our scene for me — not reenacting what you’ve already written,” he said again. “ _Our_ scene. Write something new for me.”

That should absolutely _not_ have been as hot as it was, but _fuck, it was so hot_. Quentin’s brain fully shorted out under an onslaught of hormones, and his mouth, freed of the pesky constraints of logic and decorum, said breathlessly, “Clothes off—I want to kiss every fucking inch of you.”

As soon as he’d said it, he cringed, his inner critic fighting its way through the fog. But Eliot made a rumbling noise deep in his chest and his hands flew to his shirt buttons. “God yes, put that perfect mouth anywhere you want it,” he said, and Quentin’s whole body surged towards him, pushing in for a kiss. By the time they broke apart, Eliot was undressed from the waist up and his long, clever fingers were working on his belt. “You too,” he murmured against the corner of Quentin’s jaw. “I want to see you.”

“Um,” Quentin panted, something lurching unpleasantly in his chest. “Actually uh, could you um. Maybe if— uh—” It was _broad daylight_ , early afternoon sun streaming through the attic window, and he wasn’t— Eliot was _so hot_ , even better now that Quentin could see the dark spread of hair across his chest, the pale skin of his lean belly, and Quentin—

Eliot stopped undoing his pants and brought his hands up to cup Quentin’s face. “I want to see you,” he repeated. “I do. Don’t go all shy on me— you’re a total snack.” Quentin squirmed in his grip, not really wanting to pull away but also knowing his face was absolutely beet red and not in a sexy way. “Should I undress you?”

“Yeah, uh, you can—” Quentin shuddered, trying to form the words. “Maybe uh.”

“Hold you down a little so you can’t escape me?” Eliot asked, the words hitting Quentin like a bolt of lightning. His jaw dropped — even less sexy, good job, self — but Eliot was smiling at him. “It _is_ something of a theme in your work.”

“Uh,” Quentin said, nodding frantically. Eliot threw a leg over him, sitting up to straddle his thighs — holy shit, he was so _big_ , physically, dick notwithstanding (although at the moment it definitely _was_ standing but stop it, no dick jokes, focus), _heavy_ with his weight settled over Quentin’s legs and strong where his hands pressed into Quentin’s stomach. He rucked up Quentin’s sweater, and Quentin’s breathing picked up dramatically.

“Look at me,” Eliot said, surprisingly soft. “Watch my face.” Quentin did as instructed, and his system flooded once more with arousal at the heat in Eliot’s eyes, the way his kissed-pink mouth hung open as he peeled Quentin’s sweater off. “I like what I see,” Eliot said.

Quentin squirmed. “Yeah?” he managed.

“Oh yes,” Eliot said. Quentin’s gaze was mercifully covered for a moment by his sweater, but then he was shirtless and Eliot was kissing his shoulder, his chest, the little divot at the base of his sternum. And Eliot’s hands — Eliot’s hands were at the button of his jeans, undoing the zipper, slipping both thumbs under the waistband of jeans and boxers together and lifting himself up to push it all down— “Jesus. Fuck,” Eliot breathed, as Quentin’s cock sprang free, embarrassingly hard already for not even having been touched. “You are fucking beautiful.”

Instinct had Quentin squirming to try and curl up on his side, but Eliot grabbed his shoulders, shoved him flat on his back again, and _wow_ Quentin’s dick was _very, very hard right now_. “No you don’t,” Eliot said, right near Quentin’s ear, as he worked Quentin’s clothes the rest of the way off. “You’re fucking beautiful.” He pressed his mouth to the side of Quentin’s neck, hot and wet and mercifully distracting. “I’ll keep saying it until you stop struggling. You’re gorgeous. I could look at you all day, tie you up and— oh, you like that?” he added, sounding amused, since Quentin had gone pliant and made a high-pitched whining noise that felt like it had come out of his soul rather than his vocal cords. “Another day, then. Fuck, how are you even _real_?”

Quentin didn’t feel particularly real, but the weight of Eliot on his bare thighs, over his chest, the tantalizing brush of his skin against Quentin’s _turns-out-throbbing-is-in-fact-a-thing-erections-can-do-_ hard cock convinced him he must be. At least somewhat. At least where it counted. “Can I,” he gasped, trying to dredge up the memory of whatever they’d been talking about like two minutes ago before Eliot obliterated the concept of rational thought. Oh, right— “I wanna suck it, please, I want—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot said vehemently, and moved off of Quentin, unfortunately, but then he was standing next to the bed and taking off his pants—

If Quentin had tried to write the noise he made into a fic, the transcription would have been something like _ggyngnahhhhh_ , which was just patently unsexy. So he’d probably just go with _moaned like his soul was leaving his body_ because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Eliot’s dick was so goddamn nice. Big. Yes. Nice big _thick_ hard _beautiful_ , gorgeous, _big hard_ _want it want it oh god_ —

“Don’t rush,” Eliot said, which was stupid, Quentin wasn’t _rushing_ he just _knew what he wanted_ , as he rolled over onto his stomach and fucking army crawled the couple feet to the edge of the bed, braced his hands on Eliot’s thighs and let the length and heat of Eliot’s cock slide across his cheek as he kissed the base.

“God, Eliot, how are you even,” Quentin said, as if that was a full sentence, but trying to add more words to it was futile. He meant what he’d said. He dragged his mouth up the side of it, tongue sliding out to taste the hot skin. And then he was up by the head, fat and dark and smooth and— yep, big, so big, as Quentin opened as wide as he could to get it in his mouth.

“Jesus,” Eliot said, and “Holy fucking shit” and “Holy— god— fuck— nngh—” which was a good sign, probably, if Quentin had reduced Eliot to Quentin-esque levels of incoherence this quickly. It wasn’t easy going, exactly, getting this absolute monster dick in his mouth; his jaw was going to ache after this. He was maybe halfway down, if that? The analytical part of his brain took over for a second: the girth was really the obstacle, here, he wanted that fat head nestled in the back of his throat but he couldn’t quite open enough to get it there, not like this—

“I have to lie down,” Eliot said, loud, abrupt, interrupting Quentin’s mental blowjob geometry problem set. “You’re going to make my fucking knees buckle, baby— your mouth is so good.” He stepped back, leaving Quentin moaning, drooling, head swimming. “Move over,” he said.

Quentin managed to shuffle himself around via undignified flailing so there was actually room for Eliot on the bed, then found himself rolling against Eliot’s side as Eliot settled down and drew him into a deep kiss. Eliot moaned into his mouth as Quentin rutted against his side, his _gotta-take-the-edge-off-or-I’m-going-to-die_ -stiff cock rubbing against Eliot’s hip.

“What comes next?” Eliot asked after a moment. He had a grip on Quentin’s waist, long hot fingers pressing into Quentin’s skin. “What’s our next story beat?”

“I didn’t suck your dick properly yet,” Quentin said.

“ _That_ wasn’t—? What does _properly_ mean?”

“You know,” Quentin said, and then miraculously added without even a shudder, “deep throating it. Getting you to come down my throat.”

Eliot’s body shook like he’d been electrocuted. “Okay,” he said faintly. “You can try—”

“I can,” Quentin said firmly, and shoved away from Eliot’s grasp, got himself into his preferred cocksucking position straddling one of Eliot’s legs. He wrapped his hand around the base, fingertips _barely meeting big thick—what the fuck how_ and slid his mouth over it again, working out his angles, breathing deep to relax his jaw.

Frustratingly, true victory eluded him — no matter how he shifted and stretched, there was some portion of Eliot’s cock he couldn’t get in there. What he _could_ get felt so fucking good on his tongue, thick and firm, and Eliot was moaning openly, half-finished sentences about _knew you’d be amazing at this_ and _look so pretty with your mouth full of my cock_ drifting through Quentin’s awareness. But it wasn’t _right_ , it wasn’t good enough, this should be— it should be perfect, this first time; Quentin had _thought_ about this enough fucking times he should at least be able to be _minimally successful_ at following through on his plans.

He sat up and Eliot basically _shouted_ , his fingers tightening around Quentin’s free wrist where he’d grabbed hold for dear life. “God,” he gasped, “you are— extremely _fucking_ good at that.”

“But I can’t,” Quentin started, hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I swear I’m usually better, you’re just— I mean, perfect, obviously, but like, _really_ thick. Sorry.”

Eliot stared at him, absolute incredulity written across his face. “Usually better,” he echoed slowly. “Quentin, I consider myself a bit of a blowjob connoisseur, and this is easily top five.” 

Quentin’s face, already hot and red from sucking dick, seemed to flush further. “Um, but,” he said, trying to remember what his objections had been, exactly. “Really?”

Eliot reached out to touch Quentin’s face, sliding his thumb across Quentin’s lower lip. “I don’t give compliments like that lightly,” he said. “Certainly not when I already have someone in my bed.” 

Quentin closed his lips around Eliot’s thumb, sucking lightly, watching Eliot’s eyes fall closed, his mouth open. “I could, uh,” he said. “I could— keep going like that. Then. If you want.”

“I do want— I really really do want,” Eliot said, and sprawled back against the pillows when Quentin bent his head to his task again. “Fuck, you’re so good— _yes_ like that.”

So Quentin worked his lips down over as much of Eliot’s gorgeous cock as he could, used his hand and the saliva leaking from his mouth to stroke the part that didn’t fit. It wasn’t very long after that that Eliot gasped, “So fucking good— I’m so close—,” and Quentin hummed wetly around his dick and kept sucking until he spilled hot over Quentin’s tongue.

Eliot was gasping at the ceiling, chest heaving, when Quentin recovered enough brain function to crawl up next to him, the taste of his come still salty-bitter in his mouth — not anyone’s favorite taste, really, but Eliot reeled him in for a kiss, licked past Quentin’s lips until Quentin was sure he could taste himself, and— _fuck_ why was that so _hot_? “What do you want?” he asked, pulling Quentin close with broad hands on the nape of his neck, the curve of his hip. “What should I do with that pretty cock of yours?”

Now that Quentin didn’t have a huge dick in his mouth, he could actually focus on other things — things like his own dick, not what anyone would call huge but _so fucking hard_ , pressed against Eliot’s thigh, almost in the crease of his hip. Things like Eliot’s arms wrapped around him, holding their bodies together. “God,” he said, desperate heat simmering through him as he rutted helplessly against Eliot. “I don’t want you to let go of me.”

The second he said it he cringed, turning his face into the pillow — who fucking _says that_ , who says that the _first time_ they have sex in a new relationship, Jesus — but Eliot made a noise deep in his chest, pleased and — _possessive_ , somehow, how could a wordless noise be possessive, but this _was_ — and nosed at Quentin’s cheek. “Whatever you want, baby,” he said. His teeth scraped the underside of Quentin’s jaw, his fingers tightened on the nape of Quentin’s neck. “Can you get off like this?” He moved his hips in time with Quentin’s, smoother and less desperate than Quentin’s motion. “Maybe with a little lube, rub yourself off on me while I hold you?”

Quentin moaned into the pillow and nodded. Eliot’s hand left his hip, just for a moment, and magic tingled through the air as Eliot did something one-handed. Then there was moisture spreading over Eliot’s skin beneath Quentin’s cock, and when Eliot moved his hips again, Quentin’s dick slid so nicely against him. Quentin shuddered, shifted his feet so he had some actual leverage, and picked up the pace.

“Just like that,” Eliot said against his neck. “Turn this way— don’t hide, I want to kiss you.” And when he put it like _that_ — Quentin turned, met Eliot’s mouth with his own, got thoroughly lost in kissing and Eliot’s arms wrapped around him and Eliot’s body next to his, solid and just perfect to rub his dick against.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Eliot whispered in between kisses, when Quentin got too caught up in his pleasure to kiss back properly. He nipped at Quentin’s lips, his fingers traced circles over Quentin’s back and neck. “Even hotter than I’d imagined. You can do _anything_ to me, baby, I’ll make it happen for you. We can do it all. Every dirty thing you’ve ever thought of, every fantasy you’ve had, I want to make your filthiest fucking dreams come true. All of them.”

“You dunno,” Quentin gritted out, rutting against Eliot, the friction and Eliot’s voice driving him right up to the edge, his body tensing, thighs shaking, “what you’re uh, fuck, getting yourself into, ah, with that—”

“I don’t care,” Eliot said. His fingers slid up into Quentin’s hair, tangling, _pulling_ — “I’m game. I want to know, I want to see it all. That’s it, yeah, oh you make the _cutest_ little face when you’re close—”

Quentin whined, his rhythm faltering, so close to finishing but thrown off track by the reminder that he had a face and it was doing things. “ _Fuck_ , why would you—”

“Because I want to finish you off myself,” Eliot said, and his hand wrapped tight around Quentin’s twitching cock and stroked fast and hard and Quentin screamed, bucked into his grip, the tension in his body surging and then unraveling all at once as he came hard in Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot stroked him through it and then kept petting him, smoothing his palms over Quentin’s shaking limbs, the small of his back. “You are incredible,” he murmured, as he did another quick one-handed spell and the splatters of come on their bodies vanished. “Just incredible. I should have gotten over myself and gone for this months ago.”

“You definitely should have,” Quentin said. He snuggled his face into Eliot’s shoulder, kissed his collarbone.

Eliot settled his arms around Quentin’s waist, pulling him close. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time. You can go at least twice in a day, right?”

“I think so? I mean I haven’t had, like, lots of occasions to _try_ , I guess. But probably?”

“Good,” Eliot said, his voice dropping low, “because I’d really like to hold you down and ride you, like that one scene from ‘Magnetic Force Of A Man’.”

Heat flashed through Quentin’s veins, until he realized: “I thought you said you didn’t know the titles?”

“I said I didn’t pay attention to them while I was working my way through. I’ve paid more attention on my five subsequent re-reads.” Eliot kissed Quentin’s frowning mouth softly. “I wanted to hear how you’d summarize your work. Forgive me?”

“Maybe,” Quentin said slowly, and grinned against Eliot’s cheek. “If you go through everything with me and tell me what all your favorite lines are.”

“I can tell you, but I’d rather show you,” Eliot said. He shifted his weight, rolling over Quentin, pinning him to the bed, and Quentin groaned, squirming under him.

“Yeah, that works,” he gasped. “Let’s do that.”


End file.
